Hope for the Best, Prepare for the Worst...

Thanks to this self-portrait he drew a few weeks back, my husband and I learned our son wants to be a police officer when he grows up. 

When asked why, he launched excitedly into an elaborate answer involving how he wants to catch bad guys using his excellent karate moves, how he will protect those he loves, and will also blow things up (for the greater good). 




Short version: He likes the idea of making the world safer. 

Of course, he's only six, so our brave hero is also prone to dramatic tears when asked to try on new pants, move his LEGOs off the dining table, or just (for once) flush the toilet.

He's my oldest, but I presume most of this is fairly typical. 




After all, when attempting to carry on even the simplest of conversations with any young kid they will ask the most outrageous questions, develop insanely illogical reasoning, wild theories of the universe, and generally keep you on your toes or send you into the depths of madness.




But hey, I'm no newbie at this parenthood gig. So often as a moment of humor or sudden thoughtfulness might surprise me, I thought nothing could really catch me off guard anymore. 




Then, as our children so often do, my sweet boy proved me wrong. With one simple question, in fact, he knocked the wind right out me.

"Mama? Do you know what a lockdown is?" 

If life were a movie, this would be the moment when I realize there is no background noise. In a vacuum of sound, every breath painfully loud, I would see these words, drop casually, almost playfully from my son's lips into the bath's bubbles.    

"I sure do, bud. Do you?"   

"Yeah. It's when the teachers have us all pile up in the back of our class. Not where the kitchen is, though. Back behind their desk."   

"Oh, yeah? And when do you do this?"  

"When they shut the lights and call out Lockdown,” his is eyes wide to mimic the importance of the command.  

Whispering now, he squeezes his shoulder up to his ears, and continues, "then we are supposed to be really really super quiet. So no one would guess we are still hiding in the room."   

"So, did you practice a lockdown today? Is that why you're asking about it?" 

Yep. They said we did a good job. But we need to work on being even quieter, and not moving at all." 

"Ok, um... Well, I bet you'll practice again..." 

Those last words are still stuck in my throat. I have no idea what I'm supposed to say to my 6 year old about having lockdown drills at school. I'm in no way prepared for this disturbingly innocent conversation.

Perhaps because there was such lightness to it, I'm still struggling to wrap my brain around this. 

My children are still so young, and we try to shield them from much of the ugliness and hatred in the world. I wouldn't think to begin a conversation about school shootings. 

So when my kid busted out the word lockdown it exposed my naiveté. When it comes to their safety, age is not a shield. Just as it would not protect them from a fire, their lack of years won't protect our children should someone decide to attack their school. 

Unlike the days when our parents learned to "duck and cover" (that wholly illogical method to protect yourself nuclear fallout), the sad truth is lockdown drills are teaching our children strategies that actually could save their lives if the unthinkable happens.

I hope they never have a reason to use this knowledge, and yet... How insane is it that I find myself relieved? Grateful, even. 

Maybe I should be feeling something different: Anger, sadness, I don't know. Instead, I find myself oddly reassured knowing the administrators and teachers at my kids' school are doing just what my mother always told me growing up: 

When you don't know what to expect, hope for the best, then prepare for the worst. 

Fiercely Letting it Shine

A few nights ago a friend reached out to me, dismayed that as Serendipity I am not shining a light on the real struggles many parents face every day. I fail to talk about the daily grind many face to put food on the table, to carve out quality time with their children, if they even have a chance to see their kids at all. 

For a moment, I admit, I felt like lashing out. Although I knew she was giving me her thoughts with and out of respect, I was really hurt. Frankly, I was also confused, because I certainly struggle with things beyond dropping my full Venti Starbucks Latte* all over the bathroom before Girl’s ballet class.

*Yes, that happened. Funnily enough, I don’t think I posted about it. Because it was a day that was full of highs and lows and in the end, there is no use crying over spilled coffee. 

Make no mistake, I know my life is pretty fecking amazing. I am married to a man I truly love (even when I'd like to throat punch him), who blessed me with two fantastic and outrageous children. We are lucky that he has a good job, which provides for us to be comfortable, and for me not to have to work outside of the home. He’s also in a union, which provides us affordable access to good health insurance. And that is truly fortunate, because I have been laid up with one broken/torn piece or another for the better part of a year. It also allows us to address the issues that have come up with The Rebels. 

But honestly, what took me by surprise was that whether or not I struggle, or what I struggle with isn’t really relevant. 

Jaime Grayson (TheBabyGuyNYC) often replies to comments he receives with "I don’t know your struggle." And while he often does so as a humorous response, it's honestly the most accurate thing anyone can say. 

Every day each of us will struggle. With what and how we chose to handle it, those are things that an outsider can never really speak to. 

I don't know your struggle. This doesn’t mean I don’t care about it. I am glad to listen, should you chose to tell me. What it means is, I don’t have the experience of your life to put this moment in context. Without meaning this to be dismissive, I frankly don't see "the struggle" as the total of your life's story. And while it may be real, my struggle isn’t all of my story. 

By way of example, SisterCat (who is like my sister & is cool with my referring to her by that name), is a single mom. I cannot imagine being in her shoes. Single parenthood is literally my worst nightmare. However, it's the only situation she's known as a mother. As it happens, she lives near her own parents, and has (in my view) an incredible support system of local friends. 

In contrast, neither Hubs' nor my families are remotely local. And because of his job, we have moved away from the family of friends that we have here in NYC. So for us, there's no one who can watch the kids in a pinch. Childcare is paid for, and not cheaply. This is not a complaint, it is the story of our normal life. I'm sure there are times SisterCat cannot imagine dealing with my circumstances. 

For all the similarities between SisterCat and I, for all the times we chat and laugh & bitch about our kids, motherhood is different for each of us. If she makes choices that I would not make, I can’t honestly say I understand or don’t, because I can never walk in her shoes. 

After some thought, this was my reply to my friend who called me out: "I would say that for the most part, I am not focusing on more than finding the bright spots. [I’m] looking for the humor in all of it. I'm blessed in lots of ways. But the fact is that I struggle with not crying my eyes out over [my pain] & over all the bad shite. [Instead] I truly try to shine out the light I want to find.”

So if you think I’m all rainbows and kittens, let me drop some truth on you. I am not always nice. In person I am probably too loud, and I’m certain I yell too often and too loudly at my children. I swear like the sailor’s daughter I am, and I’m terrible about watching my language around my own children. The Rebels each have their own struggles, and they test my weaknesses, often without even meaning too. I pray every day for more patience. I cry, often, in frustration. I get mad & I vent & I do my best to let my anger go. I apologize. A lot. 

I’ve said before, I’m not trying to blow sunshine up your pipes. Well, maybe by sharing #SunriseInToddlerville/#SunriseInRebelshire photos all the time I am, actually. The thing is, each morning I wake up, I roll over, and I look outside. Every dawn is different. Every day is different. 

That IS my perspective. That is MY goal: To see each day new. It is my choice to not focus my energy and attention on the negatives. I cannot change what came before today. I can own my part. I can learn from it and move forward. Every day I try and be the smile in the crowd. I try to keep an open mind and an open heart. Each day I try, and when I fail, and when I fall, I take what I need to recover. Then I try again. 

If you follow me on social media you’ll probably know that EVERY week I post about my #OnWednesdaysWeWearPink campaign. What started as a reminder for myself that I am part of the fight against breast cancer has grown to something larger. I still want to call on everyone (guys and gals alike) to check their humps for lumps. But early on I recognized that it was a weekly reminder to empower myself. 

In turn, it has become my weekly reminder to everyone: #BeFierce, #BeKind, #BePositive. #BeTheLight or #BeTheLightYouWantToSee.  The last week in thinking about all the ways we each battle through our days I decided to add  #YouAreWorthFightingFor to my list of reminders. 

So do I hope that I’m creating a space that brings joy or humor or in some small way is a bright spot in your day? Absolutely. 

Do I think I need to enumerate all the things that could be holding you down, making you want to hide under your covers and give in? Nope. 

Just know that someone believes You Are Worth Fighting For. 

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Keep Your Scale of One to Ten: I'm a 12

I am exceptional for many reasons, but one you wouldn't likely guess is that for a reasonably healthy 40 year old I've gone under the knife a bunch. Nothing cosmetic, and I have no bionic parts. Maybe that makes it more extraordinary? Hard for me to say, but statistically I'd imagine so.

When I first went back to the podiatrist about getting the screws removed from my foot, she was fine with doing it if they were bothering me, but the X-rays showed no reason why it should be. So I waited a few extra months, hoping to avoid the procedure. Hoping the discomfort would go away; instead it became more painful to wear any shoes. It would appear my immune system was working hard to reject the screws. In fact by the time had surgery the other day, the doctor was a bit surprised to find this reasonably large granuloma had formed. And so, although it meant a more involved operation, the doctor decided to take the plate out of my foot too.

As I sit here with my foot on my desk, recovering from #Frankenfoot: #TheReturn, I've been thinking about this.  Everything about that story should be extraordinary. For my world, that is par for the course. 

I had to recite my medical history several times leading up to the surgery & I noticed it brought about a one of a few responses. "Goodness, you've been through a lot." "Oh... I don't have room for all that in the space provided." "Wow, that's... a lot of surgery."

Truth be told, I always laugh at whatever is said. I make jokes, because otherwise I get uncomfortable. Otherwise I have to deal with the sympathy.

I used to joke that each visit to the operating room was going to be lucky 13. Well, as of the other day, I've made that trip a dozen times. Just for giggles & clarity, here's the list:

1. Arthroscopic: my right knee to remove torn cartilage. 
2. Arthroscopic: my left knee, lateral release on the ITB
3. Inner Tibial Osteotomy: left leg/knee, with lateral release
4. Removal of hardware from left leg (screws)
5. Surgical biopsy of my right breast (2 incision sites)
6. Inner Tibial Osteotomy: right leg/knee, with lateral release
7. Removal of hardware from right leg (screws)
8. Laparoscopic cholecystectomy (gall bladder removed)
9. C-Section: Boy
10. C-Section: Girl
11. #Frankenfoot: Foot surgery to remove bunion, fix hammer toe & reshape arch of my right foot
12. Removal of granuloma & hardware (screws & plate)

I'm not even including the injury on my 12th birthday when I broke a bottle over my right leg, which resulted in a deep laceration that required a feckton of stitches, on top of a visit to 2 different emergency rooms. (Don't ask - It is a good story I'll save for another day.)

Stop! This is not a cry for sympathy.  Frankly, I'm not even sure what my point is. All of this is just a part of my story. A small slice of what makes me the person I am.

Here's a peek behind the curtain at the short and random Serendipity:  Every day I wake up and there is pain somewhere. That is as much a part of me as the scars I have from all the surgeries, my brown eyes and the filings in my teeth. If you didn't know where to look, you wouldn't see anything to give you that knowledge.

If it's a good day (and most are) I won't tell you about my pain. I doubt you would know the difference. If it's a bad day, and I happen to mention it, believe you'll never know how bad it must be for me to speak up.

Honestly though, I usually just get up, stretch and get on with the business of living. As one does.

Although, looking at this picture of Baymax (from Big Hero 6) I'm now thinking, I would love to have the big squishy robot as my personal health care companion.

On a scale of 1 to 10, how would you rate your pain?

Can you just imagine what that would be like on a bad day?

"It is okay to cry. Crying is a natural response to pain."
I'd curl right up, hug, cry, while Baymax pat my head. Then I think I'd have him cushion me as we fall backwards out a window and bounce. No harm, no new scars. Seriously, that would be sweet.

Am I the only one who has this fantasy? I really have always been more of a laughter through tears kind of gal.

I started off saying I'm exceptional. And I guess on one scale I am. But I certainly never feel extraordinary. Maybe that's my point here - on my scale, I'm normal.

Well, I'm may still be using that word a bit loosely, I suppose.

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The Shy Poet & Unexpected Treasures

What follows is the twisted tale of how my photographs came to be published in a best selling poetry book. If you find this to be far-fetched and completely random, well, I would wholeheartedly agree with you. It is, nonetheless, entirely true.

Like all good stories, we must begin with a prologue:

Not so long ago, but in a part of my life seems so very far away, I designed the album artwork for a band. (Like for real, it's on iTunes and everything.) 

You see, my significant other was a friend of the guitarist, & we'd seen them perform countless times. They weren't a "hair band", though oddly all had fantastical hair. Each performance I'd think “I have to bring a camera and capture all of this.” So, naturally, I did just that; taking photos during bar gigs, playing at being Annie Liebowitz or something. 

Maybe they just liked my chutzpah, or probably because they wanted me to knock it off during shows, I found myself invited to shoot during their rehearsals. 

Yada yada yada... my proximity to the band led to me doing not only some photography, but all the graphic design for the band's EP. 

As it happens when artists work well together on one project, the guitarist and I became collaborators on any number of things. Some, like the band’s EP, were brought to fruition. Others, well, not so much. You know how it goes with “artistes” and their artistic endeavors: personalities clash, passions and tempers flare, relationships explode... Finally the project, no matter how utterly brilliant or beautiful, is abandoned. 

Flash forward about 6 years. Which is also a rewind to just a few months ago. But that’s confusing, so never mind. 

So my friend Chasity (aka The Shy Poet) announces she has a deal to publish a book of her original poetry. In our little corner of the Internet this is a very big deal. Her poetry is universal, approachable, often heartbreaking & lovely. 

Not terribly long into her work on the book, she publicly declares a need for images that are not previously published or copyrighted. 

I was sure I’d have a photo or two that she could use & if it would help her, why not? So I threw my hat in the ring & offered up my photography. As did about 90 other people. I mean that literally. And I am being totally honest when I say I NEVER imagined she’d want to use any of my work. Well, maybe one or something, to be nice. I offered because I wanted to help my friend. The fact that this was for print publication was so far out of my thoughts it barely registered.  

So you can understand my total fecking shock when she tells me she’s not only hoping to use some of my photos, she’d really like to use only my photos.

Oh, and can we do this in a matter of days?! Deadlines… 

My first thought (after OMG, yes!!!) was “Whoa... she wants 12??? That means she needs to see a collection to choose from. No, no, no… Oh dammit, I can’t pull together a portfolio of photos for her to pick from in a matter of hours!” Yes, friends and neighbors, full on panic was the emotion. Elation? Yes. But massive panic. 

Then it hit me: The abandoned project.

The guitarist & I had been working on an audio-visual piece under the working title of “Pure.” Had it been destined for gallery installation or YouTube? We weren't sure, but both of us had been pumped. For my part this meant all my spare time was spent editing photos and video montages. With the project shelved, hundreds of photographs went into cold storage on my hard drive. I was too disheartened to do anything with them. 

In that abandoned computer file was the answer to my anxiety attack. I had an archive of photos that were unused, unseen, and easily sorted in a matter of hours. I was able to present Chasity with a portfolio of photos I loved but hadn’t had a reason to work with for years. Finally some of these pieces would get to be a part of something extraordinary: a collaboration with a friend & an artist that I could trust with my work. As intended. 

Problems resolved, I hurried to get things sorted out so Chas could make her deadline. It was days after she'd seen all the photos & maybe not even until the whole project was wrapped that I realized how remarkable the situation was.

Truly the stars had to align for these photos to finally find a proper home. 

Serendipity. Queen of Silver Linings. These are my monikers because I know I have stumbled my way into some fairly remarkable things. I've always come out of the darkness of yesterday into a brighter tomorrow. I continue to be honestly surprised (and humbled) by the path my life has taken. 

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Sometimes the Best we can do is Muddle Through

**Originally published 12/24/14 as "Have Yourself A Muddled Little Christmas" - a guest post on How My Brain Works**

It never fails to hit me in the feels.  

Judy Garland sings "Someday soon, we all will be together, if the fates allow (I try to hold on as my throat tightens). Until then, we'll have to muddle through somehow (My eyes well with tears), so have yourself a merry little Christmas now (And I’m crying).” 

Tears of remembrance. Tears of love. And a reminder of the time I tried so hard to make Merry I found catharsis in a movie theater on Christmas Day. 

I think I’ve led with the punchline, so let me back up a bit. 

For me, memories of childhood are wrapped up boxes of Time. Where we lived, what school, what grade, these are the nested boxes of my childhood. The ones that hold holiday memories are either labeled “Granny-Christmas" or not. For 29 years, long after I was a “child” by any stretch of the Santa-clause, my Christmases were categorized by "Do we have the grandparents for Thanksgiving this year or Christmas?”

  

I’d love to say that changed at 30 because I had my own family, or something exotic like I moved out of the country. The reality is, Mom died in June 2004, only a few weeks before my 30th birthday. My Grandfather had passed a few years before & my Grandmother was no longer able to travel. Honestly, Granny-Christmas wasn’t only out of the question; the whole of the holidays seemed fairly screwed. 

Then, the other shoe dropped. Almost exactly 6 months after my mom, and just 2 weeks before Christmas, my mother’s sister passed away. I admit, it’s all still a little fuzzy in my mind. I asked my Dad recently, he also has no real memory of what we did that year. There was a trip to NH for my aunt's funeral, but the memory box for that holiday is lost. 

My one clear recollection is being in the car when I got the news about my aunt. I was on the way to Target to Christmas shop for my brother’s kids; when I got home that night I told my boyfriend those kids were getting the best Christmas ever. I’d shopped my grief. All I wanted was to find a way to bring a little joy. 

The next year, 2005, I was determined we’d try to make new traditions. So I bought a really nice pre-lit tree and sent it to my dad. When I came down to WV from NYC we had a little tree trimming with a few of my college friends. 

And then I convinced Dad to go see The Family Stone with me on Christmas. If you watch the trailer, it looks like a crazy-family comedy. It stars Diane Keaton, who was always one of Mom’s favorites (Dad’s too, I reckon). The entire cast is filled with actors we both liked, so what could go wrong? Well, for those who haven't seen the movie, I'll give you some highlights…

• So, after you get the set-up where the uptight girlfriend meets free spirit family, we learn that Diane Keaton’s character - the mother of the Stone Family - has cancer. 
• And she’s dying. 
• There’s a scene where the grown daughter, who is pregnant, is crying watching Meet Me in St. Louis. It is just at the part where Judy sings Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas. The father walks in and talks to her, comforts her. A small, sweet daddy/daughter moment. 
• At the end of the film finds the family a year later, and clearly Diane Keaton's character has died. But life has moved on. Babies have arrived, love has been found, things are okay. Not the same. But that’s alright. 

I mean - Seriously??!!! 

There I was, bawling in a theater next to my Dad. I cried for what we’d lost, what we never had, and I cried in fear of what was to come. I cried because I’d ruined Christmas. Of course Dad summed it up with something like “Good movie, shite timing."

Now here’s the thing that probably makes no sense: This is one of my favorite Christmas memories. Seriously, it's in the Top 5. Not because it’s about one of my now favorite Christmas movies. But because Dad and I muddled through those first few Christmases without mom together. Somehow. One screwed up attempt at a time. A few years later he moved to Texas, and we spent his first Texas Christmas on the beach. (That’s another at the top of my list, but that’s because it was splendid.) 

You know, it’s been several years now since we've been able to spend Christmas together. It’s Dad who doesn’t like to travel now. It’s hard to to make the trip from NYC to Texas with my little ones any time; I can’t imagine trying it for a few more years at the holidays. As the song goes, some day, if the Fates allow. 

Until then, I’ll cherish all the holidays past, whether they glisten with glitter or tears. 

 

Have yourself a merry little Christmas
Let your heart be light
Next year all our troubles will be out of sight

Have yourself a merry little Christmas
Make the yule tide gay
Next year all our troubles will be miles away

Here we are as in olden days
Happy golden days of yore
Faithful friends who were near to us
Will be dear to us once more

Someday soon, we all will be together
If the fates allow
Until then, we'll have to muddle through somehow
So have yourself a merry little Christmas now

Looking on the Bright Side - I am Queen

I have given myself many titles, but one of my favorites is Queen of Silver Linings. 

I don't know if I was always this way, looking for the bright side. I can remember watching Haley Mills in Pollyanna with my mother & kind of making fun of her for being all glassy eyed as Mom watched the little girl find her sunny outlook again. 

Somewhere along the way I learned if your world falls apart you need to believe there is a way out, otherwise there never will be. It's a self-fulfilling prophesy, right? Because if you don't believe there is a path back out of the darkness you won't look to find it. 

I'm not totally naive, nor am I trying to blow sunshine up your booty. Bad shite happens. A lot of it. I don't just mean on a personal level, of course. Listen I live in NYC; I was here on September 11, 2001. Life routinely turns on a dime & punches us in the throat.  

Long before that tragic day, Mister Rogers reminded us to look for the helpers. To shift your focus onto those who are working to make it better. Here in NYC, I've witnessed an extraordinary outpouring of kindness & generosity by ordinary individuals. First in the aftermath of the attacks. Two years later there was a massive blackout on the East Coast & I saw that same spirit of togetherness resurface immediately. Then again in the wake of Sandy, the storm that tore apart much of our region. 

I've been lucky, I guess. Those large-scale tragedies have never directly impacted my family. Just the run of the mill bad shite darkens the clouds in my sky. And yet I've witnessed the same empathy & kindness directed toward me, momentarily cutting the dark.

Still, I imagine most folks who meet me would never know I live with chronic pain. They'd never imagine all the surgeries I've had to repair my knees, my foot. They'd never know by looking about the losses, the poor choices, the humiliations. All the pieces of my life that I often feel are barely stitched up & held in place by a single fine thread. 

I used to feel like I wore a mask. A mask made of my choice to live without regret, my choice to look for the up-side, my choice not to focus on the pain but instead focus on what good things have resulted from that pain. So I worried I was being disingenuous. 

But I'm beginning to realize I don't have a false facade, after all. Rather, how I choose to view the world somehow shines from me, like the silver lining around a dark cloud. 

So I can say with hesitation or fear of misinterpretation - Serendipity is the Queen of Silver Linings. 

Lost Fox Hunting

Alright, I'm a military brat. We fall into 2 categories - the ones that care about having stuff, and the ones that don't. For me, all my things make me feel at home, even when I know its just stuff. I'm the creepy Junk Lady muppet at the end of Labyrinth. Seriously, I'm practically a hoarder. I don't trash things until I'm damn sure I'm never gonna need it again. Or no one I know will ever need it again. And if anyone, anywhere, maybe can use it, I'm donating it.

The Junk Lady from Labyrinth

Really. I have a storage unit that can stand as testimony to this. I have had things in storage since 2004. We aren't going to talk about the money lost there, ok? This ain't about that.

I know this about myself. Those who love me know this about me. Sister Cat once spent an entire day helping me sort through my childhood stuff to find what was precious and worth holding onto vs. what was trash. It was damn near the HARDEST thing I've ever done. HARDER THAN LABOR. Seriously. See, I couldn't displace it because the pain was in my soul, not my body.
Am I nuts? Maybe but whatever, this isn't about that either.

This is not to say that I don't ever lose things. I sure do. And when I do, it's usually an item of crazy importance or value. A brand new iPhone - yep, lost one of those. Several hundred of dollars in CA$H, yes. I don't want to talk about. Suffice to say: When mama fucks up, she does it big. And it is devastating to me in so many ways - so, ya know, I go pretty far to avoid it.

You know who does lose things? Kids. It's the way it is, and the way they learn valuable life lessons, I guess. Oh man, it kills me every damn time one of my kids misplace something. I have gone searching for lost loveys all over stores and neighborhoods. I know how devastating it is to me and I want to spare them, and me, the pain. For a while my son had a really bad habit of throwing things when we were out & expecting them to come back. Too much Toy Story, probably. He believes his toys will find a way to get home. They didn't & he's gotten better about doing it. Lesson learned.

I'm being honest here, so let's also say I'm a little OCD about their toys. Maybe that's an understatement. It drives me INSANE when we go to play with something and it's not all there, and then in that moment its a panic & Boy is whining or Girl is repeating the same request over and over. My head just started thumping on one side with remembered anxiety.

When we go out there are things that do not leave the house. At this point in our lives they are too easily lost or fought over in public play grounds and, again, I no longer want to spend my day retracing my steps for something that fell off the stroller tray when (God forbid) I wasn't looking. Or that becomes cause for my son to beat yours up in the sandbox. I don't have the patience for that sort of thing. Control issues? Check.

So as I go along about my day I'm always keeping an eye on the Special Toys. The current loves of my children's lives. Frequently, when I see them discarded out of the way, I'll scoop them up and put them on a dresser or in the bed. Because ultimately it is easier for me. If my kid is whining about where his favorite dinosaur is, I can tell him it's on his bed. Problem solved. I don't have to go searching while his crazy gets out of control & my patience wanes.

But hey, that is my JOB. I'm an at home mommy. My job is to know which things are important today & where they are. Pretty much at all times. I patrol my apartment like a prison guard, counting inmates & watching for new gang members. It is not my husband's job. I get that. He doesn't have the time or patience to pay attention to those details in the same way I do, because he has 2 buildings to keep an eye on all day, while I'm with the 2 kids.

Which is I why I shouldn't be so annoyed by what happened last night. For those who aren't friends on Facebook, I will explain. I left the apartment at 5:30 for yoga. When I got back about 8:30 it was bedtime for kiddos. Only no Foxy was to be found. We searched, nothing. Got the kids in bed. Searched again. Nowhere. This is not possible. She must be here somewhere. They didn't go out. No one came over. All I kept thinking was, "How could he have let Foxy get misplaced??!!"

Mama Foxy & Lil Foxy

If you don't know already, Foxy is Winter Girl's little lovey. Only about 5" high, and easily held & cuddled by my wee girl. She is the baby of a set from Ikea. Girl LOVES her. She is the Velveteen Rabbit of our home - Foxy is most certainly Real.

She has gone missing before. A couple of weeks before Christmas. My husband and I were both confident Foxy had not left the apartment. After we tore the place apart and couldn't find her, we had to reluctantly conclude she'd been been lost while everyone was distracted on a walk to the car.

Again, being honest, I was probably more upset than Winter Girl. She looked, and asked for Foxy, but she was fairly satisfied with Mama Foxy at bedtime and other small companions throughout the day.  About a week later - when life had started to move on without mention of Foxy - my husband found her where he had apparently stashed her leaving that morning - IN HIS COAT POCKET. Seriously??!! Buttmunch. But ok she was found

When it came to Girl's love for Foxy, well, absence certainly made the heart grow fonder.  Now when we are getting her in the stroller, Girl will ask for Foxy if she's not already clinched in a little chubby fist. When Foxy falls/is thrown out of the crib, there is a clear wail of "MOMMY - I NEED FOXY!"

So naturally, I tore the apartment upside down this morning. Every drawer, every bin, every closet. Nothing.
Until 5 minutes ago.
With renewed purpose I took a break from writing this rant to check in all the toy bins again. And damned if I didn't find her! Way in the back of the basket of blocks. I don't know how either my husband or I could have missed her there. It's not like she blends in - she's orange and plush, for Pete's sake.

Unless... No, I'm not going to even type that... Let's just say maybe I've been watching a little too much Toy Story too.

Maybe He's Allergic to Sleep?

“Am I sleeping? Have I slept at all?”
― Chuck Palahniuk, Fight Club

This was how yesterday began.

Having only gone to sleep around 2am, I wake up barely after five as Summer Boy climbs into bed with me. And, although I'm honestly still asleep, I can tell by how alert he is that he's been up & "doing things". Oh fudge.
After a few moments it sinks in that he is talking about being hurt. What?! Oh, a thorn in his "paw" - he has a stick of some kind in between his fingers & wants me to play doctor. Right. Grab it, pluck it out & as I toss it on my side table I feel the eraser tip. Eraser = Pencil. Groggy brain makes it's way to the fact that we only have pencils in the kitchen.
Double fudge.
ALRIGHTY THEN! Mommy's awake now. Off and running to check for signs of damage, first on my son, next in the apartment.

My love, my big strong boy, who has been braking out of baby proofed areas since he could walk. In our place, the daycare, friends' places & public spaces... What he can't open, he climbs over. If he can't scale it he will just knock it over or bring the walls down trying. I know it sounds like I'm exaggerating, and I truly wish I was. We have gates up - but that's to corral the daughter, as they barely slow the boy down.

Thankfully it was only a pencil he found & decided to play with.  A wandering toddler can get into considerable pain & trouble in the middle of the night - I know first hand. 

I was probably younger than he is now, but I remember often getting up in the wee hours. Trying to be quiet, trying to do things for myself, exploring all the places & things I would have been directed away from if anyone, even my older brother, had been awake. On one occasion my nightlight had burned out - so naturally I stuck a nail I'd found someplace in my wanderings into the light socket. Yes, it was shocking to say the least. Another time I climbed up onto the sink in the bathroom so I could reach my dad's razor in the mirror cabinet. I remember shaving. And I remember cutting myself, and my parents being horrified at waking up to my little bloody face by the side of the bed.

Although those are probably the two worst accidents I had, there were a number of others. Needless to say, my parents made some changes to keep me in bed & out of trouble. But there is only so much a parent can do. Particularly when your child is like a Houdini Monkey.

Maybe it's genetic, because my poor son seems to have all my sleep issues. He has always taken ages to wind down. He pushes himself to stay awake, refuses to nap unless he passes out, and rarely sleeps as long as you would imagine he would. Some nights he stays awake hours past his bedtime, playing in the dark, coming into our room, putting off sleep. Some nights he goes to sleep, only to be up at 2am all ready to play. Some nights are like last night - he was tired, fell asleep (getting up once because we forgot the nightlight), and seems to have slept through the night until a reasonable hour this morning. It's frustrating for all of us, particularly since there seems to be no real rhyme or reason. I feel like we’ve tried everything short of tying him to the bed or locking him in at night.

So, what's the answer?
I really have NO flippin' idea. I am open to suggestions, though.

What I DO know is all too soon we will have to take the front off my daughter’s crib. Another transition to a toddler bed - in the room she shares with her big brother. Which means we start sleep training all over again.

It also means the odds my being awake way too damn early are about to double.

Well, hello.

You can call me Serendipity. I had a little ol' photo blog once upon a time, but then I got pregnant & then I had baby & then a husband & then another baby...

Somewhere in there I gave up on a photo a day. Eventually I also gave up on the whole working a job outside the home thing too, but that is a different horse's tail. Funnily enough, I miss those photos a day a lot more than the old career. Mayhaps I ought to be getting the old blog back on her feet again, you say? Yeah I'm thinking I will do just that, but first...

Here's the thing. Somebody told me the other day that I inspired her. Me? I don't have a traditional job, I'm not in school, I don't DO anything particularly. So, um, ME?!?? Seriously? 

Well ain't that some shit.

Here I was, feeling sorry for myself, bitching about how my doctor has basically told me that my way of being is causing the severe back pain I've been having. Ya see, I'm short & married to a tall dude but I shouldn't be looking up or reaching over my head. Also I shouldn't be looking down too much, like say at my two toddlers. Also I shouldn't sit on the floor with them. EVER. I was told this was "the kiss of death" for me. Oh and then the yoga I do, specifically the back bends I love, are hurting not healing. 

Ya know, basically black is yellow, the Sun is made of green cheese & everything will be just peachy as long as I look straight ahead, but keep my chin down, and don't make any sudden movements. 

Uh, yeah, ok. Right. 

Did I mention my 2 kids? Big Boy, a strapping 3 year old who is the size of a 5 year old & weighs 50lbs. (no, seriously, he's not tubby just HUGE), and Baby Girl, who'll turn 2 this winter and alternates between worshiping her brother & clinging to Mama like a sock to a fuzzy sweater. They excel at getting me to pick them both up at the same time. Or both riding me like a horse any time I kneal down to tidy up toys, or climbing over furniture to jump on my neck. You get the point. I live in physical toddlerville, where getting headbutted is a sign of affection & sudden movements are needed for both my protection and my children's. 

*sigh* So here I am feeling like I'm stuck & useless.

But... BUT... Now I'm told I am someone's inspiration. What? Why??! She sees me posting updates about going to yoga even when I don't feel like it. 

That's all? 

Yep. No biggie. Except I'm doing it. I'm taking time for me, my health - maybe working on my back. For sure on my stress. (Cuz y'all know, mommyhood is not a Zen occupation) If I manage to restrict the amount of chocolate & wine I consume after the yoga, maybe I'm working on a little weight loss... But what she saw was that I'm doing all those things for ME. 

Which, means long term I do them for my family too. 

And like that - I WAS INSPIRED. 

So here we are. Honestly - I don't know what I'm doing, but I'm trying... Trying to be the best mom, wife & hell, the best ME I can be. I'm trying to heal & be whole. To be kind & loving & spread positive energy & crack a smile.